Amelia's Laundromat

When May is a bright sheet swinging in the warm Ocean breeze, we send our shirts to Amelia’s Laundromat in Corozal (5 dollah per load). In The backyard, shadow-splashed by a glinting Row of buckets, the old Toucan sleeps in the pan Of yellow noon, her brilliance all rinsed out. At Neil’s Bar, the men take time out to admire The lady’s undies on the belly of the clothesline. Amelia brings our wash, all blazed and warm, Still beating from the sun. (Beautiful Amelia!How can I lift my eyes?) Behind me, Daren And Roger from the Suga Boys Club, carryingTheir famous football strips; sour with sweat And the fading happiness of the last game. ‘You bwai; you feel poli?’ Amelia is talking to me; as if my lost, white soul Is made visible by the steam. The Boys laugh, Like it’s some great joke. I take out my wallet And they stop laughing. I count 5 dollah, slowly; There’s fifty more between these lips of alligator skin.